


so in love

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Relentless and Terrible Pining, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 01:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: The Antichrist, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness, at fifteen months, is slightly behind other children in terms of normal developmental milestones and Crowley is not worried about this.He’s not not worried about it, either.





	so in love

**Author's Note:**

> if the footnotes don't work i shall scream

The Antichrist, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness, at fifteen months, is slightly behind other children in terms of normal developmental milestones and Crowley is not worried about this.

He’s not _not_ worried about it, either.

On the one hand, there have been billions of babies over the long years that Crowley has seen grow from late walkers and talkers into marathon runners and famous rhetoricians. Warlock Dowling isn’t even _late_, not technically, just a little slow, according to the well-thumbed parenting manuals Crowley definitely doesn’t have shoved under his bed. Plenty of children don’t start walking until they’re eighteen months old, and even though Warlock hasn’t shown _much _interest in coherent words yet he does seem to understand what’s said to him. He likes it when Crowley reads to him, and sometimes even recreates his favourite story during playtime.[1]

But on the other hand, this is the Antichrist sitting on the rug in Aziraphale’s cottage, smacking two wooden blocks together and burbling incomprehensibly. He can’t bring about the end of times if he never learns to walk, can’t command his armies by flailing his chubby little arms and beaming up at his nanny like she hung the stars for him.[2]

_But_ if Warlock isn’t walking and commanding then the Earth is safe - the more like a human infant he is, the longer Crowley and Aziraphale have to guide him into a safe, non-world-ending child so that he and countless others can grow up into safe, non-world-ending adults. Never mind the fact that the idea of this tiny, fragile boy being anywhere _near_ hellhounds and dragons and _Hastur_ is entirely, unthinkably abhorrent to Crowley. So it’s best, really, if Warlock remains a normal baby who hasn’t started walking or talking yet, like countless other normal babies who have grown up hale and hearty and never ended the world, not even once.

_But_ what if Warlock is the exception and this is a problem? Crowley isn’t qualified to know - what if-

A mug of something warm is pressed into his hands and Crowley curls long fingers around the mug on autopilot, looking up at Aziraphale. He looks much more like himself this evening, in blue striped pajamas and a burgundy quilted dressing gown he could have stolen from Oscar Wilde, back in the day.[3] He’s also taken his false teeth out, since Warlock won’t remember this evening as soon as it has stopped happening, and Crowley resists the urge to be smug about having told the angel early on that the teeth were a mistake in the face of - well, in the face of _Aziraphale_, familiar and well-beloved and undistorted by remarkably ugly dentistry.

“You must stop fretting, dear boy,” Aziraphale chides gently, patting Crowley’s shoulder with a soft smile. “The boy will be - just fine,” he says with a grunt, heaving himself down onto the rug opposite with Warlock between them.

_You don’t know that,_ Crowley thinks, fixing his gaze on his knees and tugging the wool skirt slightly further down his legs, bent like hairpins and tucked into his side. _You can’t know that; no-one can know that._

“Watch your tea,” he says instead, voice still gently, slightly Scottish; he wants Warlock to know he’s here and feel safe just by listening while he plays. They don’t come to the cottage in the evening often, so Warlock might get scared if he can’t recognise his carers. Aziraphale glances at his own mug, placed at his side and thus not too far from the boy. “He might knock it.”

Aziraphale smiles at the boy, making no move to protect his tea from the child or vice versa. “Yes, it would be just like you to start walking just to knock over my tea, hmm?” he tells the boy fondly. “You’re a menace.” His voice is practically overflowing with love, and Crowley has to duck his head to hide a smile as Aziraphale remembers his influence. “I - I mean, you’re, uh-”

“Take a night off, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, taking pity with a grin. His daft, fussy angel. “Warlock, you’re a delight; angel, we’re even.”

Aziraphale sends him a little smile. They’ve had six thousand years of knowing one another, and it’s not hard to read the messages encoded in the shape of the angel’s lips: relief, gratitude, pleasure, love. Always love, in every little gesture for every little thing.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, haloed gold by the lamp behind him, and Crowley just has to sit and look for a moment. It’s odd to say that he has missed Aziraphale, since they see each other every day, but he has all the same. Aziraphale is there, but just out of reach behind the wall of Brother Francis; the near-but-not-quite is worse, somehow, than half a world away. But now, with the Dowlings away at a diplomatic function and the staff asleep in the big house and Aziraphale, _really_ Aziraphale, just the other end of a rug, Crowley is as close to the angel as he ever gets.

Which is to say _not close enough._ But it’s all he gets, so he’ll take it; and anyway, that’s a problem for another time.

Aziraphale’s smile is just morphing into a slightly embarrassed grin, one that prefaces _dear boy, is there something on my face?_ when Warlock reaches out one little hand to present him with a lightly chewed wooden block. “Aa,” the boy says seriously.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale says, carefully emphasising his words and offering Warlock an encouraging smile. The block is suspiciously less slobbery when it hits Aziraphale’s palm than it was when it left Warlock’s fingers and the air smells slightly spiced, like incense and Christmas cooking and divine miracles; Crowley rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. “That’s very kind of you, Warlock. We must always share our toys with others.”

Warlock beams at Aziraphale, and then promptly snatches the block back and crawls across the carpet to drop both blocks in Crowley’s lap. He babbles something happily and then jams his fingers into his mouth.

“He’s just sharing!” Aziraphale says loudly over Crowley’s laughter. “That was a nice thing to do.”

“Yes, well done little hellspawn,” Crowley agrees, scooping up the boy and pressing a kiss to the side of his face. “Stealing from angels and giving to demons, very nice,” he says, in what would be a croon were it not for the hissing. Aziraphale gives his delight an unimpressed look and Crowley sticks out his tongue in mature and slightly forked retaliation.

“I thought we were having a night off, anyway,” Aziraphale points out rather primly.

“Oh, fine,” Crowley agrees easily, releasing the wriggling baby before he can grab at Crowley’s nice, shiny, very-much-still-attached-to-his-ears earrings. Warlock makes a beeline for the tassel of Aziraphale’s dressing gown, and the angel’s eyes widen. A rice cake appears between his fingers with a snap and a puff of cinnamon smell and Crowley frowns. “You can’t just give him snacks _whenever_, Aziraphale. He’s supposed to be going down for the night soon.”

“But - my dressing gown,” Aziraphale protests, gently swapping the tassel for the snack before it can make it inside Warlock’s mouth, and Crowley sighs. He had known this would happen; it’s why, even though Crowley is the more green-thumbed of the pair, Aziraphale is the gardener and not the nanny. Aziraphale loves children, but in the same rather absent way that he loves cats and volcanoes and people who talk in cinemas - he would prefer that, for the most part, they happened to someone else. Kids are noisy and messy and unpredictable, and they chew antique dressing gowns and put grubby fingerprints in first editions and wail when one most wants to reminisce over Aphra Behn in peace and quiet. Aziraphale has had six thousand years to become quite comfortably his own priority, and eschewing a little quiet hedonism for Warlock’s sake would require the breaking of a remarkably long habit.

“You’ll spoil him,” Crowley says, taking his glasses off to rub his eyes whilst the boy is distracted with the treat.

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale says, brushing Warlock’s hair out of his eyes and smiling benignly down at the child. “I’m sure you’ll balance it all out, in the end.”

“Trusting me to be a good influence? Oh, angel,” Crowley says. Aziraphale offers him something that might have been a glare, if he had been able to commit more to crossness than amusement, and Crowley grins wickedly over the rim of his tea. “How the tables have turned.”

Warlock drops the half-eaten and entirely sticky rice cake onto the rug and shuffles onto his hands and knees. “Where are you going, young man?” Aziraphale asks softly, reaching out to stroke the boy’s head again. Crowley’s heart does a series of complex operations and winds up three sizes too large for his chest and lodged somewhere in the hollow of his throat. He doesn’t deserve this scene, this softness; but he wants it, wants it so badly that he can’t love the moment for fear of losing it.

“Nana Ash,” Warlock says, grabbing Aziraphale’s wrist with little fat fingers. He’s been saying something like _Nanny Ashtoreth_ and _Brother Francis_ since he was nine months old, the age when most kids start naming their parents. He’s not once tried to say _mama _or _dada_. Crowley and Aziraphale don’t talk about that much; neither of them especially want to be the voice of reason against infernal or divine rage on the subject of the Dowling parenting strategy.

“Alright, you go and see your Nanny Ash.” Aziraphale lifts his wrist slightly in expectation of the boy letting go and crawling off at high speed,[4] but Warlock just hauls until he’s standing on his own two feet and gripping Aziraphale’s sleeve with tight, sticky fists. Crowley notices the velvet dressing gown and how it bunches in Warlock’s hand with a kind of absent fascination, in the same way that, when one looks at the sky, one looks at the clouds to avoid being overwhelmed with the vastness of the horizon. It’s easier to think about the precious sleeve than Warlock standing on his own, or the way he says _Nana Ash_ and not _mama_, or how Aziraphale himself is _not_ thinking about his sleeve and is instead staring in shocked delight at the boy on his arm and practically glowing with divine love. “_Oh,_” Aziraphale breathes.

Warlock does a little bum-wiggle and takes one tottering _(giant, universe-altering)_ step toward Crowley, still clinging to Aziraphale. “Mog,” he says, sounding rather pleased.

Crowley slams his sunglasses back onto his face before Warlock can see much more of his eyes[5] and reaches out his hands. “That’s right, Warlock dear, come and see your Nanny Ash.” If there’s a wobble in his voice, Aziraphale is kind enough not to mention it.

Warlock takes another step and reaches for Crowley’s hand so that he’s stretched between the two sides, a hand in each being’s palm and silhouetted against the fire in the grate at his back. He’s very small, and very fragile, in that moment, and bridging the gap between heaven and hell on wobbly legs that barely bear his own weight, let alone the weight of the world. For just the briefest of wild moments Crowley is convinced that they have the wrong boy; it can’t be Warlock, not their little boy with his squishy hands and round belly and silk-soft hair. He can’t even walk yet! He doesn’t say anything more complicated than _bouncy, bouncy ball!_ He’s scared of the Cbeebies blobs, for fu- Someone’s sake! And most of all-

Most of all, he’s their little boy. He wasn’t supposed to be, not by anyone’s planning; Crowley and Aziraphale certainly hadn’t taken the job thinking to themselves, _oho, what fun we shall have raising the spawn of Satan himself as our own little boy because his parents aren’t interested! we shall just love kissing the skinned knees and bumped heads that will bring about the end of days; we’ve been waiting for the opportunity to stay up all night with percentile charts and expected milestones and to resist the urge to cry when he says our names and reaches out his little hands like we mean something, like we’re loved-_

“Crowley, dear boy-”

“Nana Ash!” Warlock says proudly, leaning over Crowley’s knees and smacking soft palms into the tear tracks stretching the length of his cheeks.

Crowley swallows hard and offers the boy a smile. “Well done, my darling boy. I’m so very proud of you.” He takes Warlock’s wrists gently in his fingers - so small, bones thin and birdlike, Crowley has _snapped_ bones like these with these very hands and without a single thought - and presses a kiss to each palm. “My clever, darling boy.”

Warlock flops into Crowley’s lap, pressing his face into his neck and wrapping his little arms about Crowley’s shoulders as far as he can. He babbles something that contains their names at least twice, and Crowley presses his face into the baby’s hair and just breathes.

Aziraphale, when Crowley is done inhaling the love pouring off the boy in waves, looks rather worried. He also looks like he might say something admonishing - he had done quite regularly, when Warlock was very, very small and Crowley had shown dangerous signs of becoming too attached.[6] After the first six months or so the chiding had trailed off, but now-

Now Aziraphale looks almost scared.

“I can’t _not_ care for him,” Crowley admits, quietly, in his own voice. “Even - despite everything. Who he is. I can’t _not_ love him.”

“I know,” Aziraphale breathes. “I - the feeling is somewhat familiar.”

And Crowley gets the sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that says _there are two conversations happening here, and you’re never going to really know which one you’re having._

He doesn’t have time, either, to figure it out; Warlock, having already figured out this whole _walking_ thing as both an excellent way of getting from A to B and of getting attention from adults, is wriggling determinedly free of his arms. “Buda Frzz!” he announces happily, pointing over at Aziraphale. They ought really to be carefully saying _Francis_ around Warlock so that he is encouraged to enunciate, and not just blow raspberries in a vague approximation of the correct sounds; it aids the development of language in children if baby talk is not used, and instead they are spoken to like grown-ups while-

“Frzz,” Aziraphale agrees cheerfully, stretching out his hands to the boy. There’s a touch of false buoyancy to his tone, as if the angel has strapped a life jacket to his thoughts and determinedly turned his back on the Titanic of conversation that he and Crowley had almost been having. Crowley himself gives his thoughts over to the lilo of Not Thinking About It, Just Now, and allows it to drift.

Warlock hauls himself upright on Crowley’s arms and totters over towards Aziraphale. Perhaps he’s just sentimental, tonight; Warlock lets go of his hand, and Crowley has to swipe quickly under his eyes with a knuckle. Humans grow old too fast, that’s the problem. He’d been worried that Warlock was walking too slowly, but now he thinks he’ll miss crawling-Warlock. There are precious few hours of tummy time[7] left to them, now; soon he’ll be running, and then Crowley will lose precious hours with his little boy to football and tutors and other children and maybe even the Dowlings. He’ll learn, eventually, to say _mama_ and _dada_ and to prioritise these over _nana ash _and _buda frzz._ He’ll start walking, and then he’ll walk away.

Warlock wobbles worryingly between them and Aziraphale starts to launch himself forward to catch him. “No, don’t,” Crowley says quickly and he freezes. The boy starts to step again and overbalances, sitting down and frowning at how this step has betrayed him and brought Brother Francis no closer.

“But-” Aziraphale says, gesturing at the boy. “He fell. I could have-”

“It’s not about falling,” Crowley says softly, tilting his head to look into Warlock’s wide, dark eyes. “Falling - falling happens all the time. We all try to do things, or not do things, and muck it up.” And, oh, has Crowley mucked up. He hadn’t meant to Fall from Heaven, or in love with Aziraphale, or head over heels into parenting someone else’s Antichrist. Crowley Fell once, and has been falling ever since; he likes to think that practise makes perfect, and that at least he now falls with style. This is what he can give his tiny, fragile boy: Crowley can’t stop the falls, but he can give Warlock a lesson in getting back up. “Falling’s easy. It’s what you do next that matters.”

Warlock looks at Crowley’s outstretched hand, and then hauls himself back onto his unsteady feet. Crowley holds him steady, and then looks up at Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who takes half a second too long to stretch out his arms again and murmur encouragingly at Warlock. Aziraphale, who practically glows with delight when the boy reaches him; who says he’s so proud of _his_ dear little Warlock, _his_ beloved boy; who cradles the child to his chest with a grin, and then immediately fusses over little sticky fingers on his ancient, precious dressing gown. Crowley has to press his knuckles to his lips to hide a smile at the sound of Warlock, _their_ darling beloved boy, babbling into the ear of a pleased and uncomprehending angel; at the sight of his precious people cuddled up and smiling; at how delightfully, predictably _Aziraphale_ it is, to fuss and adore in equal measure.

Aziraphale catches his eye and his whole face scrunches up in a beam of pure, angelic happiness. There’s a bright nimbus of light around his head, the colour and quality that produced by good beeswax candles in scriptoriums or the 1940s reading lamp in the backroom of the bookshop, and spare joy sparkles in the crow’s feet around his age-old blue-grey-green eyes.

Crowley closes his eyes and basks, just for a while, in the beautiful glow. Sometimes, he really _gets_ the “be not afraid” thing; Aziraphale is awful, as in, inspiring of awe. It terrifies Crowley, sometimes, how much he’d give up to sit in Aziraphale’s light until the end of days and waste away like an opium addict for the promise of untouchable, beautiful dreams.

Warlock yawns enormously and settles into Aziraphale’s shoulder as if he intends to remain there forever.[8] Aziraphale smiles down at him; sleeping children are far less likely to cry, or make a mess, or break things, and thus proportionally more adorable in the angel’s eyes. “Have you worn yourself out, with all your wonderful walking?” he murmurs quietly, sweeping a dark lock of hair away from the boy’s eyes.

“I’ll put him to bed, if you like,” Crowley says. Aziraphale must be tired of their company by now; he has hosted them in the gardener’s cottage for the entire rainy day and Aziraphale only checks the weather forecast so that he can plan his reading on days when he can stay out of the garden. Crowley and Warlock must have deprived him of at least two new titles or old friends.

But Aziraphale shakes his head, not looking at Crowley. “Let me have him a little longer, dear boy. You can tell me about the gossip I _know_ you’re propagating in the kitchens.”

Part of Crowley is tempted to analyse this; to vivisect the moment until he can see how it works and why, until he can never have it back. But the bigger part of him is a massive gossip, and rather proud of the drama he’s stage-managing between one of the maids and the new head chef. Aziraphale has always been a good audience for his mischief, providing the perfect mix of “oh, you scoundrel, you,” and very little actual disapprobation, and watching the angel giggle over the rather Shakespearean misunderstandings with which Crowley has helped and hindered the two ladies’ romance without waking Warlock is so heart-rendingly endearing that it’s entirely worth Crowley’s stymied curiosity as to why, exactly, he’s folded up on Aziraphale’s rug with an angel and the Antichrist and talking about nothing of any importance whatsoever.

But it’s nice.

Eventually, for the sake of Warlock’s sleep, Crowley unfolds his legs and stumbles on his knees to Aziraphale’s side while the blood returns to his feet. Swapping the baby, this time, is easy: Crowley leans in, ever so close, until he’s cheek to cheek with the love of his long, long life and he can feel Aziraphale breathing against his neck; Aziraphale rolls the sleeping boy into the waiting cradle of his nanny’s arms; and the angel reclaims his arms from where they were, briefly, trapped against Crowley’s front. His fingers brush the underside of Crowley’s breasts, trail slightly down his side, and then pull away. Crowley feels stars sparkling in their wake, and wishes upon every single one.

Aziraphale isn’t quite looking at him when he leans away and Crowley briefly, in terrible panic, wracks his brain for any mythology about angels somehow reading wishes and lurches to his feet a little too fast. The resulting headrush has him flailing his free hand wildly until it lands on something soft and steadying, and a careful palm wraps around his wrist. The swirling vertiginous stars part like the red seas before Aziraphale’s immovable support and reveal the angel on his knees, leaning up and looking worried. His expression, however, cannot outweigh the sheer, blinding _shine_ of him, and Crowley is both surprised and not surprised to find his eyes wide and mouth dry, dark painted lips slightly parted in breathless, blindsiding, blown-wide-love. Is it really any wonder that he would be so floored by his most adored angel, kneeling at his feet with Crowley’s hand, possessive and heavy, threaded through his silk-soft, cloud-light hair? Aziraphale is on his knees, head by Crowley’s hip, and the demon’s brain is short-circuiting: he looks like a pre-Raphaelite Arthurian hero receiving accolades, he looks like a penitent sinner being absolved into sainthood, he looks like the men who kneel in the back rooms of Soho nightclubs and discrete Portland Place clubs. Crowley can’t bloody _breathe_.

“Dear boy? Are you alright?” Aziraphale is rubbing gentle, slow circles around the angular, jutting bone at the base of Crowley’s wrist, and the demon is tempted, for a moment, to say _not at all, angel; not a bit alright._

But he doesn’t. Because he isn’t also going to say _you’re so beautiful, sometimes, that I think my lungs are going to burst. Do you ever miss them, Aziraphale? The days that Leighton and Rossetti and all the others were trying to claw back, when fealty and loyalty was everything? Because I swear it, Aziraphale, I’ve gone way past fealty and straight into thrall. You possess me. Until the end of days, however long that may be, and beyond, if I can muster any semblance of self with which to adore._

“Headrush,” he chokes out instead.[9] “‘m alright, now.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

“No falling over, now, not with our- the baby,” Aziraphale says, softly bolstering, and Crowley resists the temptation to laugh, possibly rather maniacally. Warlock makes a snuffling noise against Crowley’s shoulder and he remembers himself; remembers that he is, in this moment, The Demon Crowley, masquerading for Malevolent Purposes as Nanny Ashtoreth, and not just a vaguely man-shaped being, standing in front of another man-shaped being, telling him that he loves him.[10]

“No, we couldn’t have that,” Crowley manages softly. There’s only so much a person can do in the face of such burning goodness.

And then Aziraphale’s hands are running gently up Crowley’s calf, over his knee, slightly beyond, _underneath his skirt_, and Crowley nearly swallows his own tongue.

“Your - uh, stockings, dear boy. One was. Slipping.” Aziraphale sounds vaguely horrified and exceedingly surprised. _You DID that,_ Crowley thinks with the ten percent of his brain still capable of words. _Imagine how surprised _I_ must be._

Crowley can only stare, wide-eyed and mouth ajar as if he might protest, might say something, might someday summon sufficient brain cells to rub together and form coherent sound. “Nnk,” he says, larynx making the best of the somewhat garbled instructions it has been given. Gawain might have been on to something, there, about the garter being a man’s downfall.

“_Honi soit qui mal y pense_,” Aziraphale mumbles, rather to himself, retracting his fingertips from Crowley’s thigh as if burnt and stumbling to his feet. Crowley considers the bent of his thoughts since before Aziraphale even touched his calf, and judges himself well and truly evil. Aziraphale offers a bracing smile and smoothes a hand over Warlock’s hair. “Well. I suppose I shall see you both tomorrow.”

Crowley nods, sharp and jerky. “Yup. Tomorrow. Mmhmm.”

One last angelic smile, and then Crowley has to launch himself out into the cool night, tucking Warlock tighter into his body like a snake coiling, or a hawk mantling over something precious. Someday, Warlock will walk on his own two feet away from Aziraphale with his hand tucked into Crowley’s; and then they’ll walk side by side but separate; and then they’ll walk alone. Someday, Crowley will fall, and his evil thoughts will spill out onto the angel and burn him. Someday, the world will end, and everything will be quite destroyed, and perhaps it won’t matter if a demon stands in a garden and cradles the Antichrist in his arms and stares at the stars he helped to hang and traces the lines in the constellations and tries not to think about an angel, kneeling, with his hands up a demon’s skirt.

Someday.

Crowley presses his face into his little boy’s hair, scrunches up demonic eyes and breathes out a shaky sigh.

Not yet.

[1] Warlock’s favourite story is about a baby and a bouncy, bouncy ball. Neither party contribute to any kind of apocalypse, and nothing is crushed under the heel of the baby’s onesie. Crowley is still very proud.

[2] This is not, in fact, wholly inaccurate.

[3] Aziraphale really had intended to give it back, and so still considers the gown “borrowed.”

[4] And oh, can Warlock get some speed on, when he’s minded to. Crowley has been forced to privately admit, after watching the child take evasive action from his bodyguards with dodging and diving and an incredible commando crawl that would have made said bodyguards’ drill sergeants _weep_, that perhaps there is merit to the phrase ‘get a wiggle on.’ Do _not_ tell Aziraphale.

[5] And any of the wayward and unwanted emotions in them. And to discourage further comparison of Warlock’s terrifying demon nanny to an affectionate hand-drawn cat in a popular series of children’s books.

[6] As if the demon weren’t pretty much gone from the second the bairn was placed in his arms.

[7] Crowley has enjoyed many aspects of childcare, but his respect for lying on your belly and pretending not to have any limbs knows no bounds. Aziraphale is not sure that the adult _also_ has to participate in tummy time, but what does he know, anyway.

[8] And Crowley had worried that he, an immortal being, wouldn’t be able to relate to a human infant.

[9] And a rush of blood elsewhere, aborted by a sudden flash of Crowley’s body knowing what’s good for it.

[10] Notting Hill, and most other Hugh Grant/Richard Curtis films, are up there on the list of Crowley’s finest. They’ve got it all: lust for floppy hair and awkward charm, envy of the unrealistic expectations raised, gluttony through all those buckets of break-up ice cream consumed by most viewers throughout.

**Author's Note:**

> mr sheen i'm so sorry i love you but those teeth HAD to go
> 
> intertextuality: so in love (orchestral manoeuvres in the dark), sir gawain and the green knight (anon), accolade (edmund blair leighton)


End file.
